by Rosie Harris
Enamoured though he was by Tracey, Tom had never taken the trouble to change his will. Nor had he made Tracey his wife. She had simply taken the name Walker after they’d moved into Accrington Court. And when Tom Walker died, his entire estate went to Agnes Walker, his legal wife.
Tracey’s anger had far outweighed her grief. She’d been so incensed that she’d shouted the details from the rooftop.
Sandy suspected that she saw him as a substitute for Tom Walker. Someone who as well as being her lover would provide her with a comfortable home and all the money she needed to maintain the lifestyle she’d grown used to.
Sandy didn’t see things that way at all. Each time she broached the subject of moving in with him he’d skilfully managed to dissuade her.
‘Living over a newsagent’s would cramp your style after Accrington Court,’ he’d said with a laugh.
Tracey had shrugged her shapely shoulders and tried to look soulful. ‘We’d be together, sweetie, and that’s what matters. Anyway, I won’t be able to stay here much longer. The lease expires in a month’s time.’
‘The lease?’
‘Tom didn’t own the place, silly!’
‘He only leased it!’
She pouted. ‘Don’t make it sound so awful. He already had a mortgage on his family home.’
‘Where Agnes lives?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And Agnes doesn’t know about this place?’
Tracey shrugged. ‘Probably not. I don’t know. Tom took out the lease in my name. He paid all the bills . . .’
‘So at the end of the month, when the lease expires, you’ll have to get out?’
Tracey nodded dejectedly.
‘And you’ve nowhere to go?’
Tracey smiled up at him expectantly, waiting for him to come up with a solution.
Sandy looked away. If she thought she could move in with him then she was going to be disappointed. That was the last thing he wanted.
Spending two, or at the most three, nights a week with Tracey was more than enough.
He had other fish in his little pond, some of them a great deal younger than Tracey. He liked living on his own. That way he could entertain whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
And not only girls!
He couldn’t see Tracey accepting that. And if she did, she might try to muscle in and spoil his fun.
Sandy suppressed a shiver. Ditching her wasn’t going to be easy, he thought, remembering the day Tom Walker had died. He’d suggested then to Tracey that they should cool things between them for a little while, until her friends had time to accept that she had overcome her grief. Then they could renew their relationship without any chance of scandal. Her comment had shocked even him.
‘Bugger what they think! He’s dead and I’m still alive. No point in sitting around mourning. That won’t bring him back. Not that I’d want him back, anyway. Boring old fart!’
As Tracey’s lips curved contemptuously, what had been merely a vague uneasy thought in Sandy Franklin’s mind until then became a matter of urgency. His peccadilloes might be known to some of his closest friends, who shared the same kind of preferences, but to all outward appearances he was a respectable business man, and he wanted to keep it that way.
When she’d driven down the High Street earlier that day and hailed him so publicly, he’d wanted to clamp a hand over her mouth not kiss her. He’d agreed to meet her that night so that he could tell her it was all over between them.
He didn’t believe in prolonging the agony over things like this. Say what had to be said and get it over with.
She’d be livid, of course. He was pretty sure she’d make a scene, which was why he didn’t want to tell her in public, and why the privacy of her flat seemed to be the best place to sever their acquaintance.
Far from depressing him, the thought that once it was done she would never speak to him again, and that she would be out of his life for good, filled him with relief.
NINE
‘This’ is the second murder on your patch in as many weeks. What are you doing about it?’
Detective Superintendent Wilson’s voice was harsh. He placed both his arms on the massive teak desk and leaned forward in an almost menacing manner.
On the other side of the desk, Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan and Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle sat to attention, feeling as vulnerable as two children facing the headmaster.
‘We’ve only had time to do a preliminary enquiry on the second murder . . .’
‘The one at Accrington Court?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And?’
Ruth resisted the impulse to shrug her slim shoulders, suspecting that if she did so it would only make her superior even angrier than he was already.
‘Like the first murder, sir, there are no clues, no eyewitnesses, and very little information to go on.’
‘Have you no theories? Do you think it’s the handiwork of the same person?’
‘Possibly! It’s hard to tell.’
Superintendent Wilson scowled. ‘You do understand that if it is the same person then you have a serial killer on your hands.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Both victims are highly respectable citizens, so you’d better find out damn quick who the killer is.’
‘Yes, sir. We intend to do so.’
‘Intend! That’s not good enough, Inspector. I want action and I want it immediately.’ Superintendent Wilson’s scowl deepened. ‘If it is the same killer then this second murder should never have happened.’ He shot a keen glance at Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle. ‘What is your opinion?’
‘Like DI Morgan says, it is quite possible that it is the same person, sir. Identical modus operandi. Very clever operator. Whoever it is pays meticulous attention to detail. No fingerprints, no clues . . .’
‘But the same weapon. A kitchen knife . . . yes?’
‘That’s right, sir. But not the same knife. The knife used in this second murder had a slightly wider blade.’
‘Multiple stabbing, though? Exactly the same as the first time.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Have you established whether the two men were friends or not?’
‘Not that we can discover. John Moorhouse, the man who was murdered first, was a teacher. He probably knew Sandy Franklin because Franklin had a newsagent’s shop in the High Street and—’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ interrupted Superintendent Wilson testily. ‘I’m quite sure he knew Franklin. We all know Franklin. Everyone in Benbury goes into his shop at some time or the other. It’s the only place in Benbury selling lottery tickets.’
The interview, half probing, half dismissive of what they had so far achieved, went on for almost an hour.
‘I think we both need a coffee after that,’ breathed Paddy when they finally emerged from the superintendent’s office.
Ruth shook her head. ‘You go. I want to get back to my office and record the finer points of this meeting while they’re still etched on my mind.’
‘Surely, that’s not necessary!’
She managed a faint smile. ‘It is to me. Superintendent Wilson has such a regimented way of thinking. Come to my office when you’ve had your coffee; I should be through by then.’
Paddy grinned. ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll pop down to the canteen and get us both a coffee, and bring them back to your office.’ He was gone before she could protest.
She was studying a printout of details relating to the latest murder when Paddy arrived with their coffee.
‘Solved it?’ he asked jokingly, putting her cup down on a pile of papers
She frowned. ‘Far from it!’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘The fact that Sandy Franklin was known to such a wide range of people in Benbury.’
He took a gulp of his coffee. ‘Why is that such a complication?’
‘It means that absolutely anyone could have murdered him!’
Paddy shook his head. ‘No one is going to murder him because he’s short-changed them or been late delivering their papers. Whoever did it must have a real grudge against him, probably a strong personal one. He was a bit of a lad with the ladies, you know!’
Ruth checked her notes. ‘A bachelor. Living on his own . . .’
‘Who liked a good time and female company.’
‘You mean it could have been a jealous husband?’
‘It’s quite possible.’
‘And from his reputation that also means there could be more than one suspect?’
‘Yes, that’s more than likely.’
Ruth picked up her mug of coffee. ‘So we need to find out the names of his lady friends.’ She took a drink. ‘Have you any suggestions?’
‘Not at the moment, but I’m sure that Franklin’s cleaner, Betsy Grey, would be able to tell us all we want to know.’
Ruth nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you should pop along and have a chat with her. That is, if you think she would be helpful.’
‘Catch her at the right moment, and she’d open up. She’s a widow in her mid-fifties and very fond of drinking a G & T in the Red Lion.’
Ruth’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Right! Well, I’ll leave you to take care of that line of enquiry. I’m sure you won’t mind dropping in there on your way home.’ She scanned another sheet of paper. ‘None of the staff at his shop appear to have been very helpful.’
‘No. They’re all part-timers. They do their hours and then they’re off. They’ve no real interest in him, or the business, from what I could gather.’
‘And the delivery boys?’
Paddy shrugged. ‘The same. In the morning, their main concern is to get their deliveries over and be at school on time. At night, they want to be finished as quickly as possible and go home.’
‘I think we ought to find out what clubs, or other organizations, Sandy Franklin belonged to, and check if John Moorhouse was a member of any of the same ones.’
‘You think there is a connection?’
‘The two murders are almost identical. That could mean that it’s a copycat murder. If not, then, as Superintendent Wilson said, it might well be that we have a serial killer on our hands.’
Paddy drained the dregs of his coffee. There were plenty of rumours flying around about who might have murdered Sandy Franklin, but he didn’t think it was his place to mention them. He wasn’t sure if she would approve of gossip.
If it had been Inspector Ben Palmer on the case that would have been a very different matter, because he would have known exactly where he stood with old Ben.
Paddy sighed. A damn sight easier dealing with a seasoned copper like himself who had worked his way up from the beat and had real practical experience.
He liked DI Morgan well enough, but he still thought it was all wrong the way she had been made inspector because she had a university degree. Here he was, nudging forty, and with twenty years’ experience of police work to draw on. Ten years on the beat, before being promoted to sergeant; then four years on traffic, before a sideways move into the plain clothes division two years ago.
Give Ruth Morgan another five years, and she’d probably be up to superintendent, breathing fire at her junior ranks the same as Detective Superintendent Wilson was doing now.
And, in all probability, Paddy reflected, I’ll still be a sergeant!
It wasn’t altogether a criticism of Ruth, he told himself; it was the system. As a person, he quite liked her. A bit prim and proper, but then she was not only nearly twenty years younger than him but new on the job and probably afraid of putting a foot wrong.
All that talk about team work, and being partners, that she’d spouted the night he’d persuaded her to have a drink on their way back from the Moorhouse murder must have been the wine talking. Twice since then she’d refused to go for a coffee with him.
It wasn’t as though they were in uniform! If they went into a café, who would know that she was his boss? Most people would think they were friends meeting for a chat. Still, if that was the way she wanted to play things then he’d have to go along with it. She was his boss.
Give her a few more months and she might ease up. Two murders one after the other was a big one for her to cut her teeth on. He just hoped she realized how lucky she was to have someone with his experience to guide her through it.
All this talk about Sandy Franklin’s murder being a copycat one, or that they had a serial killer on their hands, was all theoretical textbook stuff, in his opinion. More likely it was merely a coincidence that both murders had occurred in a space of a week, and that in both instances the same type of weapon had been used. There hadn’t had a murder in Benbury for at least five years, which was probably why it was scaring the pants off old Wilson.
What the super hadn’t mentioned – and which in all probability Ruth didn’t know either, since she hadn’t referred to it – was that Sandy Franklin was a Mason, and so was the superintendent. Paddy didn’t know for sure, but he’d bet any money you liked that they were in the same lodge. Which was why the super was so anxious to apprehend the murderer. As soon as he had the chance, he’d check out if John Moorhouse had also been a Mason. If so, then, and only then, would he mention this fact to Ruth. In the meantime, there were plenty of routine enquiries to be carried out, starting with Sandy Franklin’s numerous lady friends.
‘Perhaps we should resume our enquiries at Accrington Court,’ Ruth commented, breaking into his reverie. ‘Franklin must have been visiting someone there since his car was parked on their private forecourt.’
‘Whoever it was obviously wasn’t interested in helping the police with their enquiries or they’d have come forward as soon as the body was found.’
‘There are only twenty-four flats in the block, so door-to-door enquiries shouldn’t take long. Come on, we’ll make it top priority.’
No one actually shut the door in their faces, they were much too well-bred for that, but most of the residents made it quite obvious that they were reluctant to get involved.
Two hours later, however, they had established that Sandy Franklin was a frequent visitor to Accrington Court. Several people confirmed that he came there three or even four times a week to visit Mrs Tracey Walker at Flat Sixteen.
There was no reply from Flat Sixteen, and no one in the adjacent flats had seen her since the night Franklin had been murdered, or could offer any suggestions as to where she might be.
They returned to the office feeling more than a little disgruntled. The name Walker rang a bell, Paddy admitted. Someone of that name had died only a couple of months ago and there had been some sort of dispute over the will.
‘And you think there may be some sort of connection?’
‘I remember!’ His handsome face lit up. ‘Tom Walker. He was a magazine wholesaler. Of course he would know Sandy Franklin. He’d have been one of his suppliers, and they’d have met at trade functions.’
‘Anything else?’
Paddy chewed on his lower lip. ‘Yes! I remember now. I had occasion to speak to Tracey Walker once when I was in Traffic Division. She’d overstayed on a restricted parking area. A very sexy blonde piece! Nice smile. I remember I let her off with a caution. She’d be very much Sandy Franklin’s type.’
‘Tom Walker is dead, you say?’
‘That’s right. He died quite suddenly, a couple of months back . . .’
‘Which means he couldn’t have done it.’
‘True.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘And I don’t think she’d be the type . . . Still, you never know. We probably ought to bring her in for questioning.’
‘We have to find her first. If you remember, she wasn’t at home and no one seemed to know where she might be.’
‘We could start with Walker’s wife and see what she can tell us.’
‘I thought this Tracey was his wife?’
Paddy chuckled. ‘That’s what everyone in Benbury thought until Tom Walker’s will wa
s read. Then it came out that he was merely living with Tracey. She’d taken his name, but he already had a wife. Tracey raised an outcry because he’d left all his money to his legal wife.’
‘Almost a reason for murder in itself, except that Tom Walker is already dead,’ murmured Ruth dryly. ‘So where does Sandy Franklin fit into this little triangle?’
Paddy hesitated. ‘Rumour has it . . .’
Ruth went on as if thinking aloud. ‘He could have gone there to offer her some advice . . .’
‘And she lost her temper and stabbed him? I suppose it’s possible, but not very likely.’
‘Tom Walker’s wife might have gone to Accrington Court to see Tracey, to have things out with her about the slanderous things Tracey was saying about her. and found Franklin there.’
‘And killed him in a fit of pique because she’d always thought of him as a friend of her husband’s and was outraged to find him visiting Tracey?’
Ruth shook her head. ‘I think that’s rather far-fetched.’
‘Think about it. Even a worm turns . . . in time. And she had recently lost her husband, remember. Grief can affect people’s minds in the strangest ways.’
‘I think you are grasping at straws, or you’ve been listening to too much local gossip,’ Ruth told him crisply.
Paddy shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘I hope so, otherwise it means we really are looking for two murderers, since there couldn’t possibly be any connection between Franklin’s death and that of John Moorhouse if it was the result of a love triangle.’
TEN
Detective Superintendent James Wilson was not in the best of moods. It had been a long evening, and he had far more pressing matters on his mind than instructing Brian Patterson on what his duties would be when he became master at their next meeting.
For a solicitor, he ruminated, Patterson was exceedingly apprehensive about what he was taking on. He supposed it went with his profession – all this cross-questioning and repeating, and checking whatever he was told.
Silently, he admonished himself to be patient. At least it would relieve some of the pressure from his shoulders once Brian was installed. He’d so much on his plate at the moment. Not least these two murders.